Hindsight
by chronic nymph
Summary: Miroku considers the inscrutable nature of the team's newest addition and Sango dreams of death. Rating subject to change.
1. epilogue

AN: hey there readers, i'm ro. so uh this is a miroku/sango story... probably pretty angsty, may or may not actually go anywhere, who knows. anyway, hope you enjoy, rating is always subject to change.

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In hindsight, it really shouldn't have surprised Miroku that Sango had nightmares.

Admittedly, there was something vaguely irritating about the fact that it took him so long to _notice_. They'd been traveling together for weeks now and this is the first time he'd witnessed it. Miroku prided himself in his powers of observation. He liked to think he had the whole group pinned, even this demon slayer, this _girl_, the newest addition to their ragtag group.

Sango. Leave it to her to surprise him.

It was wintertime. The night air was cold and black and silent. The barren, naked trees did little to stop the bite of the wind, and the light from the fire did even less to penetrate the darkness. Their makeshift camp seemed smaller and more pathetic in the wilderness now than usual… Kagome had returned to her own time, and Inuyasha, true to his character, had found some convenient excuse to follow her. Those two were easy to read. It was because they were honest; it was a trait that rendered them utterly transparent.

Still, their honesty gave them strength, and although Miroku had faith in his and Sango's abilities in battle, the loss of half their fighting force put him on edge, and more importantly, kept him awake.

He really had nothing to do but watch Sango the Silent cry softly in her sleep. She was curled up a few feet away in a makeshift nest of blankets from Kagome's bag of necessities. Kirara and Shippou lay wrapped up snugly beside her, their faces pillowed in each other's tails, their breathing perfectly, sweetly synchronized. They were far too exhausted from the day's journey to be roused by a few muted whimpers.

Sango's face was tucked protectively behind her arms, but still, he could see her expression twist with pain, and the tears leak from the corners of her eyes. Miroku rested his elbow against one of his knees, leaning forward, chin in palm, and watched her.

Her breath picked up, _terror_, and her body trembled and tensed and shifted restlessly, _panic_.

Miroku could only guess what she was dreaming about; her life, as far as he could tell, was one horror after another. And it was all Naraku's doing… the destruction of her village, the slaughtering of her family right before her eyes, the nasty incident with her brother. He clenched his cursed hand and listened to her whine. She sounded like a child.

Sometimes he forgot the girl was only sixteen.

It wasn't difficult to, considering the way she handled herself when she was awake. Her skills of stoicism were impressive (and that, coming from a professional liar, conman, and womanizer, was no petty compliment). In battle she was stone cold, strategic, ruthlessly persistent in her attacks.

Even when she shed her armor and donned the modest kimono she seemed to prefer, she had her guard up. She smiled with Kagome, a little shy in the face of such strange, unadulterated kindness, and she was patient with Inuyasha and Shippo, stern with Miroku…

But guarded still. There was a certain quality to her gaze, a detached quality, and it seemed it was always there.

Well, Miroku thought as Sango tossed her head with a strained gasp, perhaps not _always_.

He had seen her at her most vulnerable, after all, on her knees before Naraku, kept alive only by the intensity of her grief and the sheer power of her hatred. She had bared her emotions nakedly then, when she thought she might die.

Apparently some of those walls came down in sleep as well.

The realization was faintly satisfying, and Miroku wasn't sure what he thought about that. It wasn't like he enjoyed seeing the girl in pain… but at least her pain, unlike her perfect mask of normalcy, was honest.

Her body gave a violent lurch; she sat up suddenly with a quiet, strangled cry. Ah, she'd woken herself up. Typical. Sango wasn't the type of girl to ride out a nightmare passively. She'd fight a dream until the very struggle of it woke her up.

Her breathing was unsteady, and he could practically hear her heartbeat from where he sat, still observing in thoughtful silence. It took her a moment to notice his eyes on her (_she always noticed him looking, and when she did her glare would burn back at him confused and indignant, but not as brightly as the heat in her cheeks_), and when she finally did the silence between them turned to lead.

As per usual, he responded to the situation effortlessly: "Bad dream?"

He could tell she was still trying to regain her composure. He watched her struggle, taking note of the pale complexion and damp temples, the trembling in her fingers as she smoothed her hair down, the faintly wild look in her eyes before she lowered her gaze and hid her fear behind those long, dark lashes. Her eyelids were secret keepers, smeared war-paint red.

"Just a little… restless… I suppose."

To her credit she only faltered a little there. Beside her, curled up in the depths of her nest of blankets, Kirara and Shippou stirred. She rested her trembling hands on them and they stilled and sighed and turned over in their sleep. She did not look at Miroku.

"Shippou doesn't sleep as well either, when Kagome's not here."

Miroku would admit this conversational strategy caught him off guard. He made a faintly surprised noise in the back of his throat, and she continued: "She's very kind, that girl." Kagome probably comforted Sango often in times like this. She was good at that sort of thing.

…Unlike Miroku.

Miroku's problem was of course that he was curious, and that he had ulterior motives, and that Sango's tragedy made her inaccessible, which in turn made her an irresistible challenge. Miroku's fascination with beautiful, broken things was at times a nearly fatal personality flaw. Even now he found himself admiring the curve of her neck as she smoothed her hair over one shoulder, imagining the smooth white canvas of her shoulders, thinking about the mutilated scar tissue on her back (which he'd seen only once, when he'd caught her bathing).

Kagome probably gave him too much credit when she said he was really a good person under it all. He couldn't help it. Something about Sango just made him want to be cruel.

His voice, when he spoke, sounded appropriately concerned. "Were you dreaming about your family?"

She looked sharply at him watching her. Two calculating stares reached across the darkness and spat embers in the fire crackling between them. He wanted to see, he wanted to _know_ about this girl.

"No," she said, and this time when she spoke her voice was smooth and somewhat defiant. "I dreamed I was buried alive." She tilted her head; he saw it in her eyes then, flashing in the firelight… a certain violent, crazy grief that he understood all too well. Destructive, murderous at times. It shook him, it unnerved him. It excited him.

He cleared his throat and folded his hands calmly in his lap, the picture of priestly good will and sincerity. "You're safe now, Sango." A very artfully crafted picture, indeed.

"Safe," she repeated dully, scoffing. She lay down and turned her back to him, saying coldly over her shoulder, "How's that cursed hand of yours, Monk? _Safe?_ Who exactly are you trying to kid."


	2. tired of digging graves

a/n: derp this chapter is really short, sorry. x: miroku doesnt play as much of a part in this chapter but he gets his time to shine next chapter.

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It was bright and cold and the path was rough.

And, as usual, Kagome and Inuyasha were arguing. Loudly.

Sango rubbed at her temples, gritting her teeth and tilting her face down towards the ground to hide her rising irritation. They'd been on the road for nearly two weeks straight already and everyone was exhausted. Sango handled the bone-deep exhaustion like she handled most everything: in silence. Miroku walked beside her; he'd been trying all morning to engage her in conversation, but Sango was stubborn, and after all she did not trust the Monk. From what she could tell about him so far – which, she would admit, was very little – he was nothing more than a womanizing conman with a death sentence. So she continued to snub him, and as it turned out, he was easier to ignore than the two bickering like children a few paces ahead of them.

"Would ya' leave me alone, woman? I already _told_ ya, we gotta' keep movin'!"

Kagome, in a grand show of dignity and maturity, stomped her foot. "There's a village at the bottom of that valley! Why can't we stop there for the night?"

"They're giving me a headache," Shippou complained, grumbling and hopping up to catch a ride on the monk's shoulder. "Anyway, I don't know what Inuyasha's being so stubborn for… we haven't stopped moving for ages! I could use a rest!" He sighed dramatically and slouched.

Inuyasha sped up a few paces; Sango watched his back, noticing the stiff, wary set of his shoulders and the distracted twitching of his ears. He was on edge. "I told you, it's a waste of time. You already said there aren't any jewel shards down there so what's the damn point? It's out of our way!"

"Oh, shut _up_, Inuyasha! I haven't had a bath in nearly a week and I'm tired of sleeping on the ground, how's that for a point!?"

Sango's gaze drifted past them both, trailing down the mountainside, over the valley, examining the village cradled at the bottom of the steep sloping terrain. There was something wrong. She sensed it, like a nervous itch in her palms, crawling under her skin. A feeling of cold-headed dread settled over her. Not a demonic aura per say, but something... wrong. She looked over at Inuyasha again and understood he had sensed it too.

"Hey, Kagome, why don't you try listening to what I've got to say, huh? I'm telling you, we don't wanna' stop at that damn village!"

"What are you talking about?"

Ah, perceptive. Uncannily perceptive at times, that Kagome.

Sango decided to interject, and did so in a calm, resigned voice. "There's something evil down there."

"A demon?" Kagome clutched at her bow nervously (silly girl, she barely knew how to shoot the thing, although Sango had to admit she'd made a few very lucky shots… ones that had saved them all more than once). Sango shook her head, and Miroku spoke for her: "No, I don't sense any demonic auras…"

Inuyasha crossed his arms over his chest and glared moodily off to the side. "I told you you didn't want to go down there. It reeks of blood halfway up the mountain."

Kagome's expression crumpled and she faltered a few steps, pausing, indecisive in the middle of the road. Sango walked past her, shifting Hiraikotsu on her back. She spoke over her shoulder and did not stop walking down towards the village. "There may be survivors. It won't take long, Inuyasha. At any rate, we cannot ignore it now."

"She's right," Kagome said with great feeling, jogging a few steps to fall into stride beside Sango. Sango kept her eyes forward, even when she felt Kagome peek shyly over at her from behind her choppy fringe, even when she felt the Monk's eyes following her from behind. Honestly, she was more unnerved by the latter.

After all, she could read Kagome's intentions. Kagome longed for female companionship, and she had a heart that ached terribly for others. Her eyes, when they stared at Sango, when she thought Sango didn't notice, were kind. And sad. Kagome had accepted her from the start with open arms, and Sango, reluctant perhaps to admit it, was slowly becoming comfortable in the warmth and optimism of the younger girl's spirit.

She understood Inuyasha, too; they were not so different, really. He had been wary, understandably so, but he had warmed up to her when she had proved herself in battle.

But with Miroku, she did not know… she could not read anything about him, and she did not like to feel his eyes on her.

There were no fires, no smoke, no outward signs of destruction, but they all knew from the silence what fate had befallen the inhabitants of the village. It had been nothing short of a massacre. They walked through the empty houses over dusty, rusty red sand and Sango found it strange that she felt almost like a ghost. It was very quiet.

Kagome fell a few steps behind her, overwhelmed. Sango made her way slowly towards the village center. Blood, everywhere, even _she_ could smell it heavy on the air.

"A-all… they're all dead." Kagome's voice trembled. She stood aside with Shippou in her arms and tears in her eyes. She came from a peaceful era; death disturbed Kagome, as Sango supposed it should have.

She, on the other hand, was used to death. She had already dug more graves than she had years… it hardly seemed to phase her at all anymore. The pain she felt now, in her heart, as her eyes jumped from the corpse of one innocent person (a child there, somebody's grandmother, a woman and her infant…) to the next, seemed dull, muted, far away. There was no time to grieve - not for her father, her village, her brother… and not for these people.

There was only time for a burial - that, at least, she could give them.

This is what she told herself, standing amongst the carnage. Kirara pressed herself against her ankle and mewed softly, mournfully. How many times had they come across this sort of scene? They all looked the same, and all these poor mortals who didn't stand a goddmaned _chance_ (like her people, _her_ people, all dead, she was the last of the demon slayers, the last one left…)

Her head hurt. It throbbed suddenly and her vision swam and she had to lower herself with care onto her knees, curling her hands in the dust. "Sango, are you alright?" Kagome's voice. Kagome's presence beside her… Shippou's little hands resting on her knees… Kohaku's eyes, terrified, dying.

"Fine… I'm fine…"

The smell of death and graveyard soil clogging her nose, couldn't breathe, couldn't -

She heard Kagome say her name, so sad - _what do you have to be sad about? What have you lost?_ - and then, darkness.


End file.
